Standing At The Edge Of The Earth
by MadameObsessor
Summary: He was donned in a stiff black suit and overcoat, his pale face contrasting the material. This was Death.


"**I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth."**

The room itself was nothing special.

It resembled a cabin that had seen many years go by; slow, grating years where its only companions were the spiders lurking in every corner and the light which cast disfigured shadows through a lone window. The wooden floors made an angry sound whenever he stepped on it just right, and to be without shoes would be putting himself at risk for a splinter in his foot. On the adjacent wall sat a single painting. In a past life it might have caught somebody's eye, but now the colors had faded and emphasized a depressing image of wide open farm land.

The whole thing looked like he felt…tired. Worn out. Exhausted. A car moving without an engine and its only way to stop being a final crash. There was no desire to be fixed, to be repaired into a state that could easily get broken again because what was the point? The only benefit to putting in spare parts was that people no longer flinched when their eyes were cast upon it. Staring at the heap of bolts and screws they'd think, _give up_, unaware that those words had already been made into a silent prayer.

Sam's footsteps landed heavily, interrupting the still air as he paced near the entrance. Every minute he glanced outside, senses completely on edge. Surrounding the shack on either side was a forest with barely enough space for the narrow and bumpy road leading back to civilization. Trees constantly whispered to each other in the stream of wind that passed by, occasionally ripping away a dirt speckled leaf from its branch. Typically this was a place of solitude, however today it only caused stomach churning anxiety. This plan that he had formed appeared to be impossible to skew, and if in some unfortunate turn of events it did he'd make sure to finish the deed himself.

Pushing back a dusty curtain from the window, he caught sight of a gleaming white 1959 Cadillac. It approached without a sound, making it seem like the entire world was on mute. Gently stopping next to the piece of junk Sam had taken to get here, an eternity seemed to pass before there was any movement. It then came in the form of the driver door being swung open and the lower portion of a cane visible as it pressed into the ground. A pair of feet were next and when the man stood at his full height and began walking, an aura of power followed him that was not to be trifled with.

He was donned in a stiff black suit and overcoat, his pale face contrasting the material. Complete silence enveloped them once he had slipped into the room, then broken with a single word. "Sam." This was Death.

Sam's heart thumped louder in his ear, making it difficult to concentrate and reminding him of the fact that he had no idea what to say. Meanwhile, Death strode over to the single table, setting his cane on top of it and lowering himself into the seat gracefully. Crossing his legs, the horsemen watched him with interest. "I'm sure you're aware, but I have a schedule to maintain. So whatever you'd like to ask, ask it." The smooth tone of his voice softened the impact, allowing time to compose a response that was semi-intelligent. "Maybe there isn't a question." Sam shrugged his shoulders, trying to act like he had the upper hand.

"If there were none, I wouldn't have been called." The counter quieted him, and he tracked a small bug across the floor. It ducked into a crevice hurriedly, and there grew a longing to disappear also.

"I need a favor, and I know…I know I don't deserve anything, just hear me out." He was treading on thin ice, and the unblinking stare that was aimed at him only caused the Winchester to be more nervous.

"This job, it's-"He shook his head, jaw tight as he swallowed. "I'm tired of it, of everything. I'm tired of waking up and wondering if there will be a knife to my throat or a monster that we pissed off. I can't even get a good night's sleep because something might happen." Sam could sense himself becoming agitated, and he worked to calm down enough to continue. "And every time I escape I'm dragged back again by heaven, hell-"

"Your brother." Death finished, as he reached his hand into the bag of fast food that suddenly rest in front of him. "He cares a lot about you." Extracting a greasy sandwich, he took a bite, waiting.

Sam's mind flashed to a different land. He was six and Dean was just hitting double digits. With their father on a case, it was a chance to implore his brother to answer his many inquiries.

"_What are you doing out of bed?" Dean sat up on the couch, gazing amusedly at his little brother. The sleep mussed curls of Sam's hair framed a pudgy, innocent face and his quiet, "Not tired." vastly contradicted his yawn a few seconds later. "Yeah, right. C'mon Sam, you gotta go back." Met with a head shake, Dean sighed and pat the cushion beside himself until a small body occupied it. "Look, I'll let you watch one-""Where's dad?" Pausing at the question, he put on a fake smile. "He's working, I told you." Sam rolled the idea around, unconsciously leaning into the warmth of the older sibling. "Is he dead?" "_No, _Sam, he's busy." Dean had replied a bit too quickly then he should have, not even bothering to imagine his hero in that way. Dad was fine, he always was. Noting how Sam's eyelids then began to droop, he knew this needed to be wrapped up soon. "He's okay, and we're okay, 'cause I'm gonna take care of you." Dean's arm slung around thin shoulders and drew him closer. "You promise?" It was barely audible, since Sam was nearly asleep at this point. "Yeah, Sammy…I promise."_

The corner of present day Sam's mouth twitched, a hint of a grin threatening to show. "I know he does." His expression left quickly. "That's kinda the problem." About halfway done with his burger, Death took a break from eating. It suddenly clicked why he was summoned here. This wasn't about a temporary solution, or advice, or asking for help on a hunt, Sam wanted him to break the rules. Sam wanted to die.

"Most people spend a lifetime in search of what you have, Sam." There's a pause as the comment is dissolved by the both of them, and he continues. "Someone who would die for you, who knows you better then you know yourself. That kind of relationship is made of gold in this world, so why throw in the towel?" He wipes at the corner of his lips, brushing off loose crumbs. "In the personal opinion of a man who is older than you can perceive, it would be a great mistake to accomplish this task. And I hope you realize that is the first time I've disagreed with death." Another long pause, and Sam is torn. Part of him wishes to just be rid of it all, no matter what the cost. However, a different part is saying that he'd be an idiot to leave Dean, even if it would be for the better.

He's dedicated a large portion of his existence to hunting, following the footsteps of a father that was more concerned with the ridding of the monster that killed his wife than the children she had birthed. But this was vastly different from the future Sam had had in mind, and he was ruined because of it. There was no chance of settling down, having kids, becoming the lawyer he envisioned himself as…or used to. The mental slate where he had written these goals got wiped clean the moment his brother showed up at Stanford and demanded his help, made it seem like there was a choice. For that he's mad. He might love Dean, but he can't always forgive him.

"Don't talk to me like that. I know what I'm doing, so either you help or I'll do it myself." Sam's whole body was tense, hands shaking slightly and causing him to cross his arms. "Just…make sure that it's for good. Crossroad deals, angels, I want all of it out of the picture."

Death stood up, balancing his weight on the intricately designed cane. Striding over to Sam, he had to look upwards to meet his eye. "And what guarantees where you'll be sent after? Hell, purgatory, those are meant to break you. They will tear your soul to bits and put it back together a million times until they are satisfied." He leaned in closer. "Every structure can fall, Sam Winchester."

"I'll stay there forever if nobody else gets hurt because of me here." He swallowed hard, and felt a tear slide down his cheek to then land on the small amount of space between them. "Please."

That word, uttered so infrequently by hunters, was the definition of a person without any options. It's what is used when they can't think of something else to say, and have truly given up. And to be spoken by Sam who originally was the bearer of hope, it meant that the last flame of humanity had died out.

"Well, then…" Death sighed, placing his hand on the shoulder opposite him. "I wish you the best of luck." Sam gave a self-deprecating smile, and he could have sworn there was a tremble in the horsemen's sentence. As both grew silent, the door of the cabin suddenly burst open in a flurry of chunks of wood. Panicked green eyes took in the scene that was unfolding, and the owner of them found himself unable to form a single letter. In slow motion Sam collapsed to the ground, an impact that created a deafening thud and not two seconds later he was being cradled.

_This is it. _Sam's world slowly faded to black, his heart giving a last pump in his chest. Amidst desperate shouts a calloused thumb ran across his neck where a pulse had been, and tears from the man above him increasingly stained his frayed shirt.

Dean.


End file.
